


Rotten Work

by AJfanfic



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaker Jaskier, Fever Dreams, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geraskier Week, Graphic Wound Description, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Off Screen Violence, Serious Injuries, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22748017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: Geralt's wounds get badly infected, Jaskier takes care of him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635637
Comments: 10
Kudos: 269





	Rotten Work

_I’ll take care of you._

_It’s rotten work._

_Not to me, not if it’s you._

Jaskier has moved past the point of panic. Panic was the word for what he’d felt when Geralt had staggered into the farmhouse they were staying at, leaving bloody footprints behind him. Panic described struggling to drag his bulk to their room, pulling leather away from skin and having the skin come with it as fused scabs tore free. To it’s the fullest extent, panic could possibly stretch to cover when the fever had set in. Geralt was pale and shaking and threw up any fluids Jaskier managed to convince him to drink. Panic failed when he soaked off the bandages that night and found his wounds inflamed, shiny and swollen, leaking cloudy fluid. Terror suited better.

Jaskier cuts the messy sutures he’d done himself the two days before. The town has no healer, barely large enough to deserve the name town. He struggles to remember the first aid he’s learned. Traveling with a witcher leaves a bard with a greater than usual knowledge of the subject, but he’s never had to deal with this before. Geralt’s never been hurt so bad. Jaskier soaks a towel in boiling water and holds it to the claw marks across the meat of Geralt’s shoulder. He whines at the heat, and what Jaskier is sure is enough pain to knock a human out, but doesn’t try to move away or to take over.

“Fuck.”

As the crusted blood washes away, Jaskier can tell that Geralt’s accelerated healing as already kicked in. His skin has mostly closed, leaving lines of raw pink where there were open wounds. It’s done more harm than good, by healing from the outside first the infection is trapped in the wound. Red streaks creep towards Geralt’s heart from the edge of it. He needs to clean it out, but he’ll have to open the wound to do so. As Jaskier heats his dagger in the fire, he prays that Geralt won’t try to fight him. In this state, he’d hurt himself as surely as he’d hurt Jaskier.

Once he’s confident his blade is clean, Jaskier sits beside Geralt on the bed. He pushes his sweaty hair off his neck.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

“Hm.”

“This is going to hurt, okay, but I need to do it if you want to get better.”

“Hm.”

It’s not much, but Jaskier is fairly sure that Geralt’s as coherent as he’s going to get. Touching his skin is nearly uncomfortable. Witchers always run hot, he’s found, but he is growing increasingly concerned Geralt’s temperature is high enough to do serious harm.

“I need you to stay still, okay?”

Geralt fists the sheets weakly, steeling himself. Jaskier presses the tip of the dagger into the longest of the wounds. Blood and pus bead up around the cut as he runs it carefully along the length of it. He tries to not drag it out, but he has to move slowly if he doesn’t want to cut too deep and hurt him further.

Geralt keens, the sound muffled by clenched teeth. Jaskier finishes and wipes the blade clean. He soothes his hand along his flank, before setting to the next cut. This was the worst of them, shorter but deeper.

“Please.” It’s barely a breath but he hears it. “Ves-Vesemir. I can’t.” Geralt’s voice is wet, tears steak his cheeks. “Please stop.”

Jaskier feels like he might cry as well. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you die, I’m sorry.” He wonders who Vesemir is, and hopes that he is dead. Geralt doesn’t speak again until Jaskier has opened each of the wounds. He trades the dagger for the towel again, wringing it out so that warm water flows slowly over the wounds, rinsing away the freshly drawn blood. Each pass of the towel draws fetid pus from the wounds and a ragged sob from Geralt. Jaskier hums quietly as he works, an old lullaby, more to soothe himself than anything else. He isn’t certain Geralt could hear him.

The linens are soaked by the time he is done. Jaskier isn’t satisfied. Geralt is a mess of sweat and fluids, trembling only weakly with fever not because it’s gone down but because he’s too exhausted to manage more. He washes his hands, then pulls the sheet up to his waist.

“Geralt? I’m going to see if I can draw you a bath. I’ll be just downstairs for a moment.” Geralt doesn’t respond, but Jaskier hadn’t expected him to.

He slips out of the room, and the air feels lighter, cleaner outside. He pushes his hands through his hair and heads down the stairs in search of the farmer who’d hired them. Her wife is sitting by the fire, doing some mending. Dinah jumps when she sees him.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“I’m fine.” His voice sounds scratchy at full volume. “Could I draw a bath? I need to bring down my friend’s fever.”

“Of course, I’ll give you a hand.”

Dinah helps him haul the tub up the stairs and into the room. Her eyes drift over Geralt’s curled form, somehow smaller now than should be possible. They carry pitchers of lukewarm water until the tub is full.

“Here.” she hands him a pouch. Jaskier pulls it open. It’s full of salt, expensive in these parts. “It’ll help keep his wounds clean, add it to the bath. And these.” She gives him another bag. “They’re made of poppy extract, to help with the pain.”

“We can’t take these, we couldn’t afford them,” Jaskier protests, but makes no move to give them back to her.

“He saved my wife, I’ll not let him suffer in my house if I can help it.”

Geralt makes a choked sound, and Jaskier is at his side in a heartbeat. He doesn’t notice Dinah leave.

\---

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill him just like they killed the little boy who he hasn't heard screaming for too long. Geralt can't make his body stop shaking. He wants to wipe his face, he doesn't want to die covered in tears and snot and his own blood. That boy had screamed nonstop for days. Maybe that makes him stronger than Geralt because he'd fallen silent a long time ago. It hurt too much to breathe. He's going to throw up. He's going to throw up and drown on his own puke because he can’t manage to roll over.

Someone helps him sit up and lean over the side of his cot. He hasn’t eaten in days, and the bile burns his throat. They wipe his chin with a wet cloth, running it over his cracked lips. Geralt chases the water hungrily and they do it again, cold and fresh.

\---

Jaskier wets the corner of the clean towel and drips water slowly onto Geralt’s lips. He wishes they had ice. It would bring his temperature down and help hydrate him, but it’s also pretty much impossible to get outside of court in the summer. When Geralt stops searching for water, Jaskier sets the towel aside.

“I’m going to get you into the bath now. I need you to try and stand up with me.” Jaskier shifts Geralt as carefully as he can until his legs hang over the edge of the bed. He wraps an arm around his back below the wounds and the other on his upper arm. Jaskier stands, pulling most of Geralt’s weight onto himself. Geralt’s breath leaves him in a whining groan. They sway on their feet, trying to find a balance. It’s so much harder than Jaskier had thought it would be to walk the few steps to the tub and get Geralt into it without toppling to the floor.

The cool water seems to soothe him. Jaskier positions him so he’s leaning against his folded arms, the wound covered by the water without him having to lean back against it or sit up under his own power. Jaskier pours several handfuls of salt into the water. He runs a washcloth slowly up and down Geralt’s arms, across his chest and shoulders. His skin is still too warm and flushed enough to be mistaken for the complexion of a normal man, but it seems the water and the cool bath are helping. The last of the crust around the wounds comes free. Jaskier presses lightly against the edges of the wounds until he was satisfied that the purulence was gone. Geralt moaned at his touch and part of Jaskier couldn’t help but feel monstrous for causing his friend further pain. The poppy, he decides, will have to wait until he is more confident it won’t just provoke another round of vomiting. It’s more important that he keeps down the little water he’d managed.

Jaskier changes the bedding quickly, piling the soiled linens in the corner. He’ll wash them later, and probably end up replacing the whole lot. The plate of dried meat and fruit that Dinah had left them when they’d first arrived is still beside the bed. Once it’s made up fresh, and Jaskier is confident that Geralt won’t drown upon being left alone, he eats. The food is more welcome than he’d expected it to be, filling a hole much larger than a single late meal. When had he last eaten? For that matter, when had Geralt?

By the time he was finished, the water had cooled completely and Geralt looked in danger of falling asleep. They struggle out of the tub and back to the bed. Geralt is shaking again, which Jaskier now takes as a good sign. He manages to very slowly finish half a cup of water, sucking on a wet towel while Jaskier rebandages his wounds, leaving them unsutured this time, and Jaskier could cheer.

\---

There was someone sitting with him. Geralt was sick and there was someone sitting with him. Gentle fingers in his sweaty hair, gently cold against his burning skin. Soft humming, a lullaby. Everything hurts but he struggles to remember the last time he felt this safe.

"Ma?"

They hush him, hands never still across his brow. "Go to sleep, love. You're going to feel better when you wake."

Geralt sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't consider any of this actual medical advice, the first aid teacher in me writhes in pain at the idea of anyone using this as a guide for how to deal with injury.


End file.
